


Shed these trousers

by kid_n_the_hall



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Saturday Smut, Still don't do plot, shed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8405950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kid_n_the_hall/pseuds/kid_n_the_hall
Summary: So, there was a comment on my deskfic hinting about the famous shed (NP talked a lot about his precious shed in last weeks interview), which had some cogs turning. Jack has a shed too, you know.
And uh, when you wake up at 4 am due to night shift induced jet lag, you write smut. Apparently.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, there was a comment on my deskfic hinting about the famous shed (NP talked a lot about his precious shed in last weeks interview), which had some cogs turning. Jack has a shed too, you know.
> 
> And uh, when you wake up at 4 am due to night shift induced jet lag, you write smut. Apparently.

In the far right corner of Jack's garden stands a potting shed. As in most other potting sheds one will find tools, seeds, bags of potting soil, watering can and other necessities for tending his garden. Here he keeps his push-bike, some extra garden chairs, stacked neatly, a larger wicker chair and a working bench. Sometimes he comes here, not for maintenance related issues but to read. When it rains, the sound of raindrops on the corrugated metal roof and the saturated earthy, floral scent from his garden settles him in a quiet calm few other things will.

Today he's in here, after a therapy session of weeding, to deal with some cuttings and seedlings.

He holds hope he'll be able to nurture them past his recent neglect. The garden at Wardlow holds a certain appeal over his own nowadays. He putters about idly, preparing pots and soil when he senses the faintest whiff of Arpège. He chuckles at his smitten brain now creating phantosmia of Phryne. Then the door creaks and the scent turns out to be not an hallucination but the actual perfume, lingering around the woman peeking inside.

His insides do a fleeting little jig at the sight of her. Still. Every damn time they've been apart. He lets it show only by a slight smile and a crease at the corner of his eye. Censors himself. The most joy his heart has seen and he instinctively tries to mute it. (Why? Probably because dour Detective Inspectors don't skip. Out of fear of bruising their hearts one can presume.)

”So this is where you're hiding out”, even a dusty little shed seems enough to evoke a curious note in her voice. Then she really sees him, takes him in, and the curiosity is outrivaled by sprouting desire.

Jack's still intrigued by how his rare lack of grooming seems to ignite an especially primal flame in her.

*

He's dirty, dusty, sweaty and tousled. In well worn pants of moleskin, a threadbare shirt with sleeves rolled up and stains from grass and dirt. Showing muscly, tanned forearms and hints of his chest. There's a tear on his trousers, a sliver of thigh visible. And her desire flares up. Hot. Burning. Radiating from the pit of her stomach. She actually tries to hold her horses, to let him set the pace for once. Scans the shed, sees the little plants he's been nurturing, his bike, the wicker chair with the little shelf hanging askew above it. On the shelf balances a lantern, matches, a pencil and a stack of books. Persuasion, The heritage of the desert, Prufrock, To the lighthouse, Curiosities of the sky. The random collection of books does nothing to quench her desire for this not in the least ordinary man. She moves towards him, as if she could do anything but.

*

She's tempting when she just _is._ When she looks at him with that flaming want, he catches fire too. Resistance is futile. And dour inspectors may not skip, but thankfully their bodies still betray them in other ways.

”Is that a hardy table, Jack?” There it is. The razor-sharp k that turns his knees to butter and then just cuts right through. He involuntarily leans against said table. Her intentions are perfectly clear.

”But I'm filthy” he holds out his hands, grimy from labour in the flowerbeds, to prove a point? Surrender? With the word of choice, it's probably the latter.

”Glad to hear it”, she drawls, ”so am I”. And with that promising statement she squats before him.

”We'll just have to put our mouths to good use then”, naughty grin in place. His knees threatening to give in altogether.

”Let's shed these trousers”, fly's already unbuttoned.

”Miss Ff... _Phryne!_ ” She literally has him by the balls now. Her clever mouth on him completely. Tongue doing tricks that's wringing out the last sensible thoughts from his brain. Spine turning hot and liquid. Swinging, shiny hair, flashes of blue when she's glancing up at him, feasting her eyes on his undoing. His knuckles whitens as he clutches the edge of the tabletop. His lungs has seemingly shrunk to half their sizes, breaths shallow and rough. She envelopes all of him once more, he can feel a tingle from her teeth at the base of his cock. She slowly withdraws, lightly running her teeth along his skin almost to the tip where she stops. He can't breathe. Can't move. She looks up and lets out a dirty laugh around his cock. He feels his spine coil around itself.

His voice like tar, ”Stop! Up.”

She traces a vein with her tongue, before she complies and rises graciously. Her thumb and middle finger gently swipes the corners of her mouth. Eyes piercing his. How can it be that with her he finds himself in situation after situation thinking that this, this happening right now, is the most erotic thing he's ever experienced?

She stands utterly still and serene. Waiting. Sizing him up. Gaze shifting, hints of devilish glitter. And he's kissing her. Demanding. Promising. With a preview of what his mouth and skilled tongue can and will do to her. A pleasant frisson races from her scalp to her toes. She breaks the kiss and with another stare down she unbuttons her trousers and knickers, chucks them down. Discards them with a flick of a foot. The procedure offering him a brief preview of a glorious patch of dark hair and her rosy, glistening sex

*

He imagines his brain's now consisting of exposed, live wires, crackling. Overwhelmed. His shed will forever be associated with Phryne standing in the middle of it, wearing heels, stockings, blouse and little else, looking wild and flushed. Will he forever be this passions marionette? Probably. He doesn't care. Secretly hopes for it. There are worse fates.

*

She observes as he licks his lips, clenches his fists. And then grabs her. She all but squeals in delight, only to be shuffled aside, so he can move past her towards the door. Not part of her plan. She feels her brows furrow deep as he grabs a discarded gunny-sack from the floor. In a second he comes back past her and spreads the sack on the table top. Dark eyes on hers and he resolutely hoists her onto the table.

”I might have stained your blouse” he says gruffly. Aiming for apologetic but lands in a frankly-don't-care state of want.

”Good thinking to cover the table or I might've stained that”, she smirks as she gives the rough fabric a stroke. He snorts, pulls her to him by a large hand on her neck and nuzzles her hair.

”Wouldn't want to compromise that magnificent derrière with splinters”, he helps her scoot further in on the table and encourages her to lean back. Skims her breasts with his knuckles, before he settles each hand on the edge of the table, just on the inside of her knees. Urging her to spread her legs a little wider. His gaze dazed with arousal, he bends down to kiss a knee, a thigh, a hip. Mumbling something into her groin. It sends ripples of want trough every fibre of her being. She grabs his hair to ruffle it and steady herself. He continues to mutter profanities as he works his way towards her core.

That voice. Even in a barely audible rumble it's still ridiculous in its ability to render her senseless. She presses her lips together to silence herself, she doesn't want to disturb his litany of endearments and suggestive vows. Raspy words, thick with lust, trickling out like gravel. He's barely touched her cunt and yet she's so close, agonisingly so.

He braces himself to keep his dirty hands of her pristine skin and flesh. Tongue testing the waters, dipping into her, tasting her thoroughly. Kissing along her folds, slowly sucking, nipping at her labia. Nose nudging her clit. She worships his hands but in this moment she can't remember why she should miss them. She lets a silent _fuck_ escape as his tongue darts deeper into her. Steady. Deliberate. Intense.

She anchors her heel under a ledge on the wall to gain some leverage. Tilting her hips for him, for herself. He slows down, she feels his ragged breaths on her inner thigh, mixed with wet kisses. Trails up along the straps of her garter belt to her stomach. She needs him. A burning surge generates from the ball of fire in her belly. Need.

”Kiss me”

He obeys, does a connect-the-dots with his nose, mouth and the Arpège from navel to neck. Finishes at her lips, leans in, forehead to forehead.

*

This. Her. Draped on a working bench in his puny little out-house. Phryne. The epitome of elegance. Making it very clear she wants him. Making him a trembling mess.

More kisses, she hooks her legs around his back to shuffle down against him. He takes hold of a thigh, pulls her closer. Tries to muster some coherence.

”Your device is...” he croaks.

”Is in place, just..” she kisses him, with no finesse at this point. ”Just fuck me already”.

And he does.

*

She opens her eyes. Motes of dust are whirling around in the little sunrays seeping through cracks in the walls. Jack's resting his head against her neck, breathing in quick, sharp bursts. Climax hit her with such force she's surprised to find the shed still standing. Even the shabby door is intact, hanging straight by all hinges. The only thing that's slightly crooked is Jack's satisfied smile.


End file.
